


Home safe

by Alexanderthegreatestgay



Series: Curt and Owen get interrupted [5]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: M/M, Mutual worry and affection, Period-Typical Homophobia, Protective Cynthia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 01:22:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9944066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexanderthegreatestgay/pseuds/Alexanderthegreatestgay
Summary: Curt and Owen love bickering and secret smooches.Cynthia loves her surrogate son and knowing everything.





	

Owen's bike roars up to the Agency's curb and Curt vaults off. His body is so tightly wound he feels like bursting into laughter because they're alive, they did it! They're home safe.  
He grins giddly at Owen, who's smirk is there to meet him.  
Curt fights the urge to grab Owen's hand and pull him bodily inside to where he can kiss that stupid look off his face.  
Instead they walk together, Curt's every step thrumming with energy. Owen strides are more measured, but Curt knows by the flash of his eyes that he too is riding high on the left over adrenaline of their mission. His smile widens at the thought of how they might burn that off later.  
"I have to say, this feels a bit too much like meeting the parents all over again, " says Owen wryly as he holds open the door, shaking Curt from his imagination.  
"Except my mother can't kill you in hundreds of painful ways," jokes Curt, and Owen cuffs him round the head playfully.  
"Seriously though, Cynthia already loves you. She's been on at me about recruiting you for months," Curt continues with a roll of his eyes, as they cross the entranceway with its bustle of staff, and head down a sparse corridor towards the debriefing room.  
"And you didn't tell me?" says Owen, mock affronted. "She might think I'm not interested! "  
"You wouldn't last ten minutes here," Curt says as dismissively as he can manage.  
Owen smirks confidently. "Oh, is that so?"  
Curt shoves at him and goes to walk past haughtily, but Owen just reaches out and grabs his wrist, pulling him back to where he leans against the corridor wall.  
He gives Curt a lazy smile as the shorter man does his best to glare at him.  
"I think I might enjoy working with you a little more... closely," he says, leaning down towards Curt.  
The American grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him through the nearest door.

A minute and two shirts later, Curt's wrist buzzes and he freezes. Owen looks at him accusingly. "Your tracker's still on, isn't it."  
"What? No," says Curt, looking panicked. "Of course it's not. Now shh."  
Owen shakes his head and starts looking for their clothes. "Cynthia, hey," says Curt in his best suave voice, unconciously covering the teeth marks on his shoulder.  
"Mega, you're late. So what the fuck are you doing in my supply closet," says Cynthia, jumping straight to the point.  
Curt looks around. To be fair, it doesn't really look like a supply closet. Most supply closets don't have grenades in them.  
"... looking for a new clip?" he says weakly.  
Cynthia sighs. "Whatever. Just get your ass to debriefing. Now."  
Curt breathes a sigh of relief and takes the shirt Owen hands to him. They'll continue this later, he thinks regretfully, watching Owen pull his shirt over his mussed up hair, back muscles shifting with the motion. Mmm. Definitely get back to this later.  
Curt has almost forgotten Cynthia is still on the line when she speaks again.  
"And tell Owen I'll see him in my office."  
She hangs up and the click echos loudly in the small space. Curt looks at his partner apprehensively.  
"Should I-" starts Curt, but Owen shakes his head.  
"Don't worry. She probably just wants to try and recruit me, like you said."  
Curt still looks worried, staring at his com unit fixedly.  
Owen lifts Curt's chin gently so their gazes meet. "Hey," he says softly. "We're fine."  
Curt nods, and Owen smiles.  
"All the same, I think we better straighten you up a bit, huh?" he says fondly, looking down at Curt's dishevelled state. His shirt is tucked partway in but still half unbuttoned, and a strand of his hair has fallen out of place in an endearing little curl. Owen smooths the shirt down with his palms and begins re buttoning Curt's clumsy attempts. Curt looks up at him as he does, taking comfort in his partner's familiar features. He knows that if they are ever found out, both of them will likely lose their jobs and their freedom. He's known all his life that he is in constant danger just from being who he is, but the moment Owen became at risk the fear was real. He can’t lose him.  
Owen brushes the stray curl away and kisses Curt tenderly.  
Curt tries to drink in the taste of him. If Cynthia knows, there's nothing they can do. It will be over. But until then, they're still spies, and Curt refuses to show weakeness. Except he thinks Owen might be catching on, with the frantic way Curt is grabbing onto his shirt. He breaks the kiss with a rueful smile, and Owen elbows him gently.  
"I'm going to have to iron this shirt now," he objects lightly, his smile a tiny familiar crescent.  
Curt presses a flicker of kiss to the corner of it, then steps back.  
"Shall we?" he says, the formality hiding genuine hesitance. Owen smiles in reassurance, gesturing for Curt to go first.  
It's more than a gesture of chivalry, among spies. It means 'I'll cover you', 'I've got your back', and 'trust me'. And Curt does, unconditionally, so he steps out into the corridor and doesn't look back until the door of the debriefing room looms ahead of him. Owen gives him a cheerful little salute from across the hallway and waits until the door swings shut behind his partner before he takes a deep breath and turns toward the uncertain fate that awaits him in Cynthia's office. If he can find it.

The door is designed to be dark and imposing, and looks as though it's probably steel reinforced too. The silver plaque is dwarfed by the hulking wood, but the etched name still makes clear who's territory the observer is about to enter. _Director Houston_.  
"Cynthia, hi!" says Owen upon entering, charm rolling off him in waves. "What can I do for you?"  
Cynthia smiles welcomingly, walking over with arms outstretched.  
"Owen, good to finally see you!" She proclaims cheerfully.  
He bows theatrically and kisses her hand.  
"Oh, get up here you big lug," she says waving him upright again. Owen feels the worry that had been chewing at him (as much as he might deny it to Curt) settle at her friendly attitude.  
She pulls him in for a peck on the cheek, and suddenly her tone drops into hostility.

"If you hurt him, I will end you," she whispers, her breath hissing against his cheek like a knifeblade.  
Owen pulls his head back, reeling a little and drops immediately into a flawless poker face.  
"I can't quite figure what you mean, love. Hurt who?" he says as easily as possible, and Cynthia steps back a momentary pleased expression on her face before she becomes as stony as a cliff once more.  
"If you think I don't know exactly what's going on in every inch of this building at all times, then the pencil pushers who hired you are stupider than I thought."

"Speaking that way about my Agency could get you in some serious hot water, my dear, " replied Owen, pretending that's what is putting the edge into his voice.

Cynthia appraises him for a moment, taking in the carefully relaxed stance, the hand that twitches a little as he resists balling it into a fist.  
She flicks on the projector with one hand and a photograph flickers to life. Owen visibly flinches. The angle is bad, the quality grainy but the subject matter is unmistakable. Him and Curt, lips locked together, clear as day.  
Cynthia picks the slide up and carefully rips it in two, still looking at him with barely repressed fury.  
"That boy is like a son to me," she says, deceptively quiet. "And he clearly sees something in your worthless hide, so as a courtesy I'm letting you know. If you hurt him," she repeats, tearing the photograph again for emphasis, "I will torture you till the edge of sanity then put you through a mincer and feed you to your weeping mother."  
She grabs him by the collar, and pulls him to within an inch of her face.  
"Are we clear?"  
Owen raises an impressed eyebrow at the strength of this slight figured woman.  
"I promise you, I have no intention-" he starts as smoothly as he can, but Cynthia raises a warning finger, and Owen nearly has to cross his eyes to see it.  
"Uh-uh-uh," she growls. "This is not a discussion. There are no intentions. There is only me telling you how it is going to go. You will treat him right or you will end it right now, do you understand me?"  
Owen nods, taken aback by her force of tone. This is nothing like the irate lectures Curt gets over his communicator, full of cussing and insults. This is flat and terrifying.  
"Do you understand?" she says once more, voice low and dripping with menace.  
"Yes, ma'am," he answers, looking at her with respect in his eyes. He can’t say he's not pleased Curt has someone as formidable as this to look out for him. Cynthia lets Owen go and turns back to her desk.  
"Go on then, don't keep him waiting," she says, waving him out and picking up a cigarette. Owen marvels at how she seems to have shrunk by several inches now she is no longer threatening him.  
He runs a hand through his hair trying to collect himself again.  
Cynthia collapses into her chair and puts her heels up on the desk.  
"You heard me, go on, fuck off," she says, already reaching for the red phone as though he's not there.  
Just as he reaches the door she lifts her head again. " Oh, and Owen? I'm sure I don't have to tell you that he _never_ finds out about this."  
Owen thinks about how he was just lifted clean off the floor by a four foot tall woman and nods his agreement. Curt is definitely never finding out about this.


End file.
